The Secret of the Unseen Treasure

by Campbell, Julie

  “Oh!” Molinson grunted.

  Jim grinned. “You can change in the boathouse, Sergeant. I’ll dig out a pair of trunks.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Molinson said. Trixie thought that this would be a good opportunity for her to confirm her suspicions, while Molinson was off guard. “Someone along Glen Road must have seen the checks being stolen,” she said. “That’s probably why they were tossed in the lake, to get rid of incriminating evidence. When we find out who—”

  “Nobody saw anything,” Molinson said curtly, cutting her off. “My officers questioned everyone along Glen Road after the checks were reported stolen. And what do you mean by ‘we‘ young lady?”

  Trixie gulped. “There must be some reason why the checks were thrown away instead of being cashed,” she said.

  “Of course,” Molinson said noncommittally. Trixie waited, but he didn’t continue. He carefully gathered the envelopes. “Suppose you show me exactly where you found these.”

  “Out there, sir.” Jim pointed toward the opposite side of the lake. “I’ll row you out.” Molinson eyed the rowboat and shook his head. “I’ll drive around. One of you come with me.” He nodded at Jim.

  “Better take Trixie,” Jim suggested. “She was the one who found them. She can show you where they were, and maybe you can get some idea about where they were thrown in.” Molinson hesitated.

  Brian spoke up. “I’ll drive Trixie around in the club car.”

  “Okay,” Molinson said.

  As they walked up to the garage, Trixie muttered to Brian, “What’s the big idea? I wanted to see if he’d tell me any more about how his investigation’s coming.”

  “I know,” Brian admitted.

  “Then why?”

  Brian stopped and faced Trixie. “Because there’s a police rule against a male officer transporting a woman in a police car without having a policewoman as an escort.”

  Trixie protested. “But that doesn’t apply to—

  Brian smiled at her. “You’re not a little girl anymore, sis. You’re a young woman.”

  Trixie stared at him. He wasn’t kidding.

  “Gee, thanks... I think.”

  A few minutes later, Brian parked the B.W.G. station wagon behind the police car at the edge of Glen Road.

  “Let’s not rile the sergeant by tramping all over his evidence,” he advised. “Let’s wait until he asks us to get out.”

  Rain and traffic in the past ten days had destroyed any possible indication that a car might have stopped along the road near the lake. Sergeant Molinson scanned the area carefully, then began walking slowly toward the lake. He beckoned for Brian and Trixie to follow.

  At the water’s edge, Trixie pointed to the spot where she had found the bag of checks. Molinson mumbled that the bag had probably been tossed there with an underhand throw.

  A search of the shore revealed nothing.

  Molinson gave Trixie a wry look. “It’s not like television, where there are clues all around, just waiting to be noticed. Real detective work isn’t so quick and easy.”

  Trixie raised her eyebrows. “But it’s exciting anyway,” she declared.

  Molinson snorted. “You call this exciting? Listen: Stick to television, kid.”

  That stung. Trixie didn’t feel as grown-up as she had a few minutes before.

  “Whoever threw those checks in certainly didn’t expect them to be found,” Molinson went on. “And I do owe you my thanks for that. But I don’t think finding the checks will solve anything.”

  Back in the station wagon, Trixie motioned for Brian not to start the engine. “Let Sergeant Molinson leave first,” she said.

  “What’s up?” Brian asked, puzzled. They watched as the police car headed back to Sleepyside.

  Trixie opened the glove compartment and removed a pad and pencil, “Help me remember as many names as we can from those checks,” she said.

  “The names were all in last week’s paper,” Brian reminded her. “We can go back to Honey’s and dig it out and—”

  “And Miss Trask will want to know what we’re up to,” Trixie interrupted. “She won’t let Honey come back with us anyway, and since were already here...

  “What now?” Brian prompted.

  Trixie was jotting names on the pad. “If we could find out where the last check was stolen,” she said thoughtfully, “maybe we could discover who or what scared the thief into getting rid of the evidence.”

  “But Sergeant Molinson said—”

  “I know what he said,” Trixie stated. “But there must be some reason why the thief threw the checks away. Drive down Glen Road, slowly, while I check the names on the mailboxes.”

  “Okay,” Brian said. “The others won’t be expecting us back right away. I hope.”

  As Brian drove along Glen Road, Trixie called out the names on the mailboxes. Frequently the name didn’t sound familiar, but that could be because there was no reason for it to be recalled. Not every mailbox received a Social Security check each month. Still, there were a number of older people living in the area.

  Another mailbox came into view. “Charles Hartman,” Trixie said, checking it off the list. “His was the first envelope we found floating in the lake.”

  The next mailbox, around a turn in the road, was Mrs. Elliot’s. Brian drove on by it. In about a quarter of a mile, they passed another box. The name wasn’t on Trixie’s list, and neither of them remembered it from the checks. Two more mailboxes, side by side, came into view. Trixie read the names aloud.

  “I know the last one doesn’t belong on the list,” Brian said. “Their son is a classmate of mine. No old folks living in his home.”

  “It’s not just older people who get Social Security checks,” Trixie said. “Disabled people and widows—”

  “Both parents are alive and healthy,” Brian said. He squinted at the other box. “I think there’s an older couple living across the road.” He pointed toward a little house set back among the trees. “I’ll see if I can find out anything.” Brian parked the station wagon beside the road and got out. Trixie could see him talking first to an elderly woman at the door, then to an old man who joined them.

  When Brian returned to the car, he looked thoughtful. “Their check wasn’t stolen, but it could have been. It sat in the box for hours before one of them came down to get the mail. And they told me they‘ve got friends up the road a bit, and none of them had their checks stolen!”

  Trixie stared at him. “That can only mean one thing,” she declared. “The thief didn’t get beyond Charles Hartman’s box.”

  “Or,” Brian suggested, “maybe he did get as far as Mrs. Elliot’s. Maybe you are right—she saw him and scared him off. That might explain yesterday’s arson attempt!”

  “Let’s go back to Mrs. Elliot’s,” Trixie urged.

  Brian was already turning the station wagon around. At Mrs. Elliot’s cottage, Max Elliot came to the door in response to Trixie’s knock.

  “She isn’t here,” he said, when Trixie asked for Mrs. Elliot. “She drove into town.”

  Trixie hesitated. “Maybe you can tell me what I wanted to know.”

  Max waited. Trixie took a deep breath and continued. “Did anything... uh, unusual happen ten days ago? June third? It might have been in the early afternoon, right after the mail was delivered. Did Mrs. Elliot—”

  “She wasn’t here,” Max interrupted. “She was down in White Plains, delivering an order of flowers.”

  “Oh.” Trixie paused. Max eyed her curiously. “Max, did you go down to the box to get the mail that day? Maybe you saw—”

  Max shook his head. “I wasn’t here either. I drove her to White Plains.”

  “Oh,” Trixie repeated.

  Max looked puzzled. “What are you trying to find out?”

  Trixie sighed. “The Social Security checks were stolen on Glen Road only as far as Charles Hartman’s box, the one before yours. We thought that maybe Mrs. Elliot, or you, had seen the thief and scared
him into getting rid of the evidence. We found the checks today.” Max blinked at her. “You found the checks?” Trixie nodded.

  Max pursed his lips. “Guess you’re on the right track, then. Someone must have scared him into getting rid of them. But it couldn’t have been here. Maybe someone hasn’t told the police what they saw.”

  “Maybe,” Trixie murmured.

  Max eyed her. “Why are you interested in the stolen checks?”

  Trixie wasn’t so sure anymore. She didn’t want to mention her suspicion about the arson attempt. “Honey Wheeler and I are going to have our own detective agency someday,” she said. “Well, thanks for your help.”

  Max shrugged. “What help?”

  “You pointed me in a new direction,” Trixie said. “Thanks again.”

  Brian looked at her, curious, as they went back to the station wagon.

  “Let’s go see Charles Hartman,” Trixie said. “Are you sure you want to?” Brian asked. “If Sergeant Molinson finds out that you’ve been—”

  “I just want to meet Mr. Hartman,” Trixie said unconvincingly. “After all, his was the first check we found.”

  Brian shook his head. “Okay. But be careful what you say.”

  Minutes later, Trixie and Brian were standing on the Hartmans’ porch. A cheerful-looking white-haired lady, leaning on a cane, answered the door. The Beldens introduced themselves.

  “How nice to have someone calling,” Mrs. Hartman said. “Do come in.”

  “I hope we’re not disturbing you,” Trixie said. “Not at all, not at all. I was just watching television. I can’t do much of anything else these days. One of those soap operas, where they suffer and suffer—makes me thankful for how blessed I am.” She made her way across the neat living room to turn off the TV.

  “Oh, don’t,” Trixie protested. “You’ll miss some of the story.”

  “It’ll be easy to pick up tomorrow or the next day.” Mrs. Hartman chuckled. “It’ll drag out for weeks. They never solve their problems quickly.”

  A step sounded on the porch. Mrs. Hartman turned toward the door. “Charley, come in. We’ve got visitors. Wipe your feet first.”

  “Do I dare forget?” Charles Hartman came into the room with a smile. Unlike his wife, he stood erect and was lean and catlike. Only his white hair betrayed his age.

  “I was out back chopping wood,” he said. “Heard you drive up, so I thought I’d be nosy.” He winked. “I have to check up on who might be calling on my beautiful bride.”

  “Charley!” Mrs. Hartman blushed. She spoke happily to Trixie and Brian. “Nearly fifty years we’ve been married. He still acts like it was yesterday.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Trixie said.

  “She’s beautiful,” Hartman corrected, looking at his wife.

  Trixie felt guilty. The Hartmans were a cheerful, charming couple. They weren’t the type to withhold information from the police. Still, though, Mr. Hartman s check had been the last one stolen....

  “Well,” Trixie began as they all sat down, “we’re sort of friends of Mrs. Elliot’s. We—our family, I mean—have known Mrs. Elliot for a long time. We were there visiting yesterday. Since her husband died, Mrs. Elliot has been having a hard time with her flower business, so it’s a good thing that her Social Security check—”

  Trixie stopped. Charles Hartman was regarding her with steady, probing steel blue eyes. She floundered and forgot what she was trying to say.

  “Young lady,” Charles Hartman said bluntly, “quit circling around like a buzzard and get to the point.”

  “Charley!” his wife admonished.

  “Be quiet, sweetheart,” he said, still looking at Trixie. “This isn’t just a casual social visit. This young lady is after something. Well?” he asked Trixie.

  Trixie wished she could dig a hole and get into it. “We—I mean, I was wondering... on the day that the Social Security checks were stolen... if you told Sergeant Molinson—”

  “I told him I couldn’t offer any help. What do you think I should have said?” He waited a moment for Trixie to answer. “Well?”

  Trixie reddened. “I thought maybe Mrs. Elliot saw something, but she—”

  “You’re circling again. Get to the point.” Trixie took a deep breath. “We made a list of people who had their checks stolen. It looks like yours was the last one taken, because the other checks delivered on Glen Road past here were received. We found the stolen checks today in the Wheelers’ lake.”

  Hartman nodded. “Go on. Why did you come here?”

  “The thief must have been scared away from what he was doing,” Trixie said. “Somebody must have seen him. Why else would he try to get rid of the checks?”

  Hartman smiled grimly. “So,” he said, “since my check was apparently the last one stolen, you thought that I might have seen the thief.”

  Trixie nodded.

  “And,” Hartman went on, “that if I had seen him, I deliberately avoided saying so to the police.”

  Trixie nodded again. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “None of that,” Hartman said brusquely. “When you’re following a lead, you’ve got to follow it with no apologies.”

  Trixie stared at him.

  He laughed. “I’m an ex-cop. I’d still be on the Albany police force if they didn’t have mandatory retirement rules.” He turned to Brian. “Come here a minute, young man. I want to show you something.”

  Puzzled, Brian got out of his chair and walked toward Hartman. Suddenly, in a blur of motion, Hartman was out of his own chair and holding Brian in an armlock from behind. “Squirm out of it, boy,” Hartman urged. “Remember, I’m an old man.”

  Brian tried to free himself, first halfheartedly, then in earnest. He could not get loose.

  Hartman released him and patted Brian’s back. “I’m also an ex-judo instructor,” he said with a grin. “If I’d seen the thief, I’d have turned him over to Molinson... with a broken arm.”

  Brian nodded vigorously, gingerly rubbing his shoulder.

  “I’m usually waiting at the mailbox for the mailman when the checks are delivered,” Hartman said. “But that day, I was getting too many laughs watching something on TV with my bride.” He regarded Trixie. “Why are you so interested in checks stolen from old people?” Trixie explained how she and Honey hoped to be detectives someday. She also told about the arson attempt. “We thought that it was a warning, because Mrs. Elliot had seen the thief.”

  Hartman nodded.

  “But Mrs. Elliot couldn’t have seen him,” Trixie went on. “She was in White Plains that day. So was Max.”

  “And,” Brian added, “nobody farther up Glen Road saw him. No checks were stolen there.” Trixie scratched her head. “Now it looks like there’s no connection at all between the stolen checks and the arson attempt. But why else would anybody do such a terrible thing to Mrs. Elliot?”

  Hartman was deep in thought. “If Sam Elliot were still alive, then I’d think—” He stopped as Trixie leaned forward to hear what he was going to say.

  “No,” Hartman said. “Ethel Elliot is a good neighbor and a good friend. Her husband’s dead, so there’s no sense in bringing his name into this. You forget that I even mentioned it. Understand?”

  “But—” Trixie began.

  “Forget it,” Hartman said. It was final.

  Discovery • 5

  JUNE LED THE WAY into July. But the clues that Trixie and Honey had hoped to pursue led nowhere. There was no answer to the question of why the checks had been stolen and then thrown away. There was no solution to the arson attempt. Mr. Hartman’s comment about Sam Elliot nagged at Trixie’s mind, but there was no answer for that, either.

  To make things more frustrating, Trixie was grounded—not as punishment, but because Jim and Brian were away as counselors at a boys’ camp. That left the Bob-Whites without a driver, since Dan, who had just got his driver’s license, was usually too busy helping Mr. Maypenny.

  Trixie was doing “overtime” ba
by-sitting because her mother was organizing the garden club to participate in a flower contest sponsored by a White Plains newspaper.

  Trixie asked about it one day as they prepared lunch. “What’s the contest all about, Moms?”

  “It’s a photography contest,” Mrs. Belden said. “The photographs must have something to do with flowers and horticulture.”

  “In case you don’t know,” Mart said grandly, “horticulture means—”

  “I know what it means,” Trixie said. “It’s what you want to get into. Right, earthworm?”

  “Worm!” Bobby repeated.

  “Bobby,” Mrs. Belden chided. “Don’t call your brother names.”

  “Trixie just did! But I wasn’t calling him a worm. Trixie made me think we ought to dig some worms and go fishing this afternoon.”

  “Later, Bobby,” Trixie sighed. “You said pictures of flowers, Moms?”

  “There’ll be various categories, from views of whole gardens to just a single flower. The contest will run for several weeks, and each week, the best entry will be published in the paper. Those become eligible for the big prizes to be awarded at the end of the contest.”

  “Is it only for amateur gardeners?” Trixie asked.

  “No, because it’s really a photography contest with the theme of flowers. It is restricted to amateur photographers.”

  “Then,” Trixie suggested, “Mrs. Elliot could enter if she wanted to.”

  “Of course. And I hope she does. A photograph of her sweet peas climbing on an umbrella frame would certainly be interesting.”

  “Hey!” Mart exclaimed. “Here’s a title for her entry: Sweet Idea for Sweet Peas.”

  Trixie looked at him. “Sometimes you do say something that makes sense.”

  “That was pretty good,” Mart declared.

  Trixie turned back to her mother. “I’ll bet they’d have won the contest for sure if Sam Elliot were still alive. He was quite a horticulturist, wasn’t he?” she said, giving Mart a look as she used the word.

  “He certainly was,” Mrs. Belden agreed. “He raised several unusual plants and flowers. There was a truck from the city almost every day, picking up orders.” Mrs. Belden frowned. “That’s why it’s so difficult to understand why there wasn’t much left for Ethel after he died. Just the property.”